


habits

by v3ilfire



Series: i fought the war, but the war won [17]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 16:35:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5974212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v3ilfire/pseuds/v3ilfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's really, really hard to convince Hawke to not be inherently self-destructive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	habits

Varric hadn’t been expecting to see Hawke in his not-as-palatial but certainly un-shabby quarters in Skyhold. She sat teetering on the back legs of the chair, feet kicked up onto the one part of his desk clear of ink and parchment, leafing through a manuscript from the previous week that he had half a mind to scrap. He laughed through his greeting.  
“You know, Hawke, some people knock first.” He shed his coat and hung it on the back of the door, dusting the tails before leaving it for the night.  
“You weren’t home,” Hesta said as she turned the page, reliably flippant.  
“That’s kinda my point,” he muttered, but where most would expect venom there was only a quiet familiarity. Hesta heard Bianca latch onto the ornate rack Varric had commissioned for her before they ever met - the only thing other than the crossbow herself to follow him to Skyhold. Either that, or she didn’t snoop well enough. “So. To what do I owe the pleasure?”    
“Boredom. I was looking for a bit of light reading,” she huffed, and tossed the manuscript back up onto his desk. “And my room’s drafty.”   
“They all are. Curly’s doesn’t even have a ceiling.”  
“Don't Templars  _usually_ get stored cold? Andraste's knickers burst into flames if they have a human feeling, you know. ” 

Varric’s laugh was muffled, given that the dwarf was bent into his closet, busy rustling for his night clothes. Once located and tossed onto the bed, he stripped himself of his embroidered tunic and exchanged it for something a little more decadent-looking. It made Hesta miss her robe a little.  
“Now, Meredith had plenty of feelings. Rage, ire, anger, frustration, displeasure…” A corner of Hesta’s mouth quirked upwards, though her eyes remained distant, staring somewhere past the wall in front of her.  
“You forgot pique,” she added.  
“It was implied,” he defended. There was a brief silence during which it was clear that he’d lost Hawke’s attention to whatever was clouding her gaze. “We’ve got an early morning tomorrow, you know.” Hesta kicked her feet off the desk and landed on all four legs of the chair with a concise thump and the trained pout of the grown child he always knew her to be. The only time he’d seen her awake in the morning was if she was still awake (and more than likely drunk) from the night before. The Inquisitor would need to haul an indecent amount of ass to make their journey to Crestwood even remotely pleasant. 

Lost in his own thoughts, Varric waited for Hesta to stand, but to his surprise she remained moored in the chair. “Hawke?”  
“Feel free to sleep,” she said hastily. “I wasn’t finished with your book yet, and I’m just  _ dying _ to find out what happens to  _ definitely _ -not-Aveline.”    
“Did you want to stay, Hawke?” 

She did. Hesta fell in beside Varric as he blew out the last candle by his bedside. Stripped of her armor to just her leggings and a loose tunic made her feel vulnerable in the worst way, but she figured it would be better than sleeping with her breastplate cutting into her, freezing in some drafty old dungeon. Once settled, both of them sunk into the mattress, laying side-by-side, not touching until the Champion finally caved (his shirt looked too soft _not_ to) and slid her arms around his waist. Varric looped one arm around her shoulders, and was content to be silently nostalgic for better days until Hawke cleared her throat. 

“Are you really alright here, Varric?”  
“Sure,” he answered. “I get wined and dined and practically handed materials for my new books. Sometimes Freckles takes Bianca and I for some scenic exercise across Thedas.”   
“But you’re alright?”  
“What’s gotten into  _ you _ ?” Hesta sighed. Varric knew the answer well enough, and chose not to press further. “You write the elf yet?” Silence. Clearly, she’d thought about it more than once. “At least write him so he’ll stop writing  _ me _ .”  
“He’s writing you?”    
“He won’t fucking  _ stop _ . I’m starting to feel like I’m the one involved with him, and  _ broody  _ has  never been my type. Write the elf, and  _ write your sister _ . They’re worried about you.”    
“I’m fine,” she lied, knowing full-well neither of them believed her. “Do you miss Kirkwall?”   
“Maker’s soggy socks, Hawke, what did they feed you? Orleisan ham?”  
“Veal,” she said. “The ham just makes me miss my dog.” She yelped and hit Varric’s arm when he gave her hair a swift tug. “Quit fucking around, asshole.” Varric snorted, but moved his hand back to her shoulder. It wasn’t as fun to yank her hair with it being so short, anyway. He decided to drop it.

But, on the edge of sleep, Varric caved into the quiet. “I’ve been worried too, you know.”    
“Oh, but something’s gotten into  _ me _ .”  
“Hawke.”   
“That only works when Fenris does it.” Hesta’s head rose and fell along with Varric’s troubled sigh. She knew the bastard was shaking his head at her - didn’t need to see his face to expect it. “I’m doing what I have to do.” Varric could argue to the contrary the whole trip to Crestwood, if he’d wanted. Her hiding was costing everyone sleep, especially when she felt in the mood to spread gruesome rumors about her bitter end and did little to disprove them for weeks on end. Even Isabela wrote letters of thinly-veiled concern once every few months or so. Merrill’s were almost weekly. Both would be glad to know that her knuckles had long since scarred over. 

Hawke’s breathing slowed eventually, but Varric couldn’t seem to quiet his thoughts long enough to follow suit. There was a weight on his chest - other than Hesta’s giant-ass head - and he couldn’t shake it no matter what sort of sunshine-shitting kittens and gold fountains he tried to force himself to think of.  
“Hey, Hawke?” She grunted in response. “You’re my best friend.”   
“I damn well be’er be,” she slurred through a yawn. “Wrote a fuckin’ book ‘bout me.”  
“I miss you around. Do me a favor and -- come back alive, will you?” 

Hesta’s words lodged themselves deep in her throat. At the very least, Varric knew her well enough not to wait for a response. Soon enough, the sudden burst of honesty tired the dwarf into a snoring slumber, leaving Hawke staring into the darkness. 

In the morning, Varric woke to a cold, empty bed. He’d expected it of her - never one to be caught being sentimental, of course, which was a convenient thing to believe until he found two letters folded neatly on his desk. 


End file.
